


Dismantling the Nest

by moodymarshmallow



Series: My Dear Warden [6]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow





	Dismantling the Nest

Despite his disdain for large population centers, with their teeming masses and narrow streets, their vermin and their filth, Theron Mahariel immediately liked Antiva City. It was more than the openness of it; more than the tall, coniferous cypresses lining the walkways, or the sun-faded silk shades over al fresco dining areas, or even the balmy air spiced with the scent of brackish water. The lack of walls was part of it, certainly. It wasn’t like Denerim where the entire city was closed in by tall, stone walls and angry, iron gates, or like Redcliffe where there was only one way in or out due to the water. But there was something else, something intangible that piqued Theron's interest and perked up his ears instead of flattening them in misery.

Antiva City had everything: back alleys with snaggle-toothed polecats and cobblestone high streets with beautiful wares for sale, hovels with sketchy lyrium dealers and mansions with society ladies in fine clothing and large hats. It was big enough to get lost in, and wild enough that it barely noticed you.   
  
If a city had to be home, it would be this one.

Theron and Zevran arrived late one afternoon during the Summerday celebration. The streets were choked with revelers, some wearing elaborate costumes, some wearing nothing but masks, all dancing to music played by street musicians with lutes and flutes, and drinking wine that flowed freely from immense wooden casks. Nobody noticed two elves in nondescript tunics and trousers, winding through the crowd with the grace of an accomplished pickpocket. Nobody noticed their laced fingers as they darted through the press of celebration, the excitement and electricity in the air finally leading them to grab a cup of wine and duck into an alley to drink and taste the bitter grapes on one another's lips. They had a mission, but celebrations in Antiva City could distract even the most business-minded.  
  
So they took back alleys and side-streets, avoiding the bulk of the revelers, still unable to stop themselves from stealing masks festooned with feathers, and kissing in the corners like amorous birds. They stopped only when hands began to creep down trousers, with promises of “later, mi amor, later.”   
  
They traveled through the city like ghosts, unseen and quiet, slipping past drunks and refuse in dark alleyways and stepping out onto well-maintained cobblestone streets surrounding estates the size of small Ferelden villages. These estates were surrounded by extensive gardens, closed in by black iron fences with curling patterns and spikes on every post. The manors at the center of the grounds were made of smooth stone, washed with different pale colors, while the outbuildings were mean brick and mortar.

Theron did not ask Zevran if he knew where they were going, or if he knew the way. Not because he knew the answer, but because they always got where they needed to be in the end, regardless of how long it took them to get there. By the time they did, lamplighters were wandering the streets with long metal candleholders, deftly opening small glass windows to light the wicks in wrought iron street lamps. But the estate they were approaching favored mage lights; solid metal lanterns with crescent moon shapes cut in them, filled with enchanted lyrium that glowed an ethereal, somewhat eerie blue at night.   
  
“Very prestigious and expensive,” Zevran explained as they passed one and Theron reached out one finger to prod at the lantern, watching it swing on its hook. “The really expensive brothels use red ones, and the cheap ones use colored glass to try and replicate the effect.”   
  
There were guards in fine burnished silver waiting for them at the gates when they found their destination. Calling it a “manor” would be understating the reality; the place was bigger than the castle in Denerim, and surrounded by lush orchards, the trees bursting with persimmons, figs and pomegranates, all lit by the pale, flickering blue of the mage lights.   
  
“You are expected,” said the guard. From then on he was silent as he led Theron and Zevran up the long pathway, where the cobblestones turned into large tile mosaics, depicting different times of day. They walked over the a midday sun to get to the palatial building, passing gardeners and guards, servants and one harried mage who was busily fixing a lantern. The elves were silent, but they exchanged meaningful glances; Theron’s pale eyes saying that escape would be difficult, if not impossible, were this a trap, and Zevran’s coffee-and-milk gaze confirming that.

They were received at the door by an elven servant who was wearing finer clothes than one would see on most nobles in Denerim. She greeted them with deference and led them to a sitting room, where warm mugs of brandy sat near a plate of bread and cheese, waiting for them. They sat across from one another, Theron crushing the mask in his pocket as he settled in, both regarding the plate and mugs with suspicious disdain.   
  
After enough time had passed for Zevran to question whether or not he would be able to taste or smell poison in the cups, but not enough for him to act on that thought, a woman in a pale gown of lace and faille approached them. She was smaller in stature than either of the elves, and had a stern, lined face that looked as though it had once been beautiful. Her hair was long, white, and braided; it sat over one of her shoulders, a blue ribbon tying off the braid at the end. Both Zevran and Theron stood respectfully as she joined them, looking up her fine nose at the men.   
  
“You are Zevran Arainai,” she said, addressing Zevran in a voice that was stronger than she looked, one of age and wisdom, laced with a thick Orlesian accent. It was not a question.

“Indeed, madam.” Zevran favored her with a shallow bow, meeting her cold blue eyes and offering a smile.   
  
“You are an assassin, once a member of the Antivan Crows.” This time, she did not wait for him to respond. “You have killed three of your former fellows, and you bear no small measure of ill will to the guild.” The corner of Zevran’s mouth twitched, just slightly, before his mobile lips spread into a wide smile.   
  
“You are correct again, madam.”   
  
“And you.” She turned to Theron, eyeing him with more care than she had Zevran, taking her time before continuing. “You are the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Slayer of the Archdemon, if the tales are true.”   
  
“They are,” Theron said briefly, dipping his head in acknowledgment, but offering her no bow or smile as Zevran had.   
  
“I thought you’d be taller.” This time, a smile crept up her lips and made it to her eyes, the corners crinkling like fine Orlesian silk. She sat and motioned for the men to do the same, picking up one of the mugs and putting it to her lips. Once they were seated, she continued. “I will be brief. I am Joséphine. My husband was a man of great wealth and importance in Orlais. He controlled nearly half the trade in luxury goods, and, as you can expect, he had many enemies.” She sat back with her mug, sipping slowly, paying no mind to the fact that the elves still refused to drink. “He was killed by the Crows; not because there was a contract on his life, but because the guildmaster wanted his trade routes cleared for merchants sponsored by the guild.”

“That is not unheard of,” Zevran said with a small shrug.   
  
“Perhaps not.” She placed her mug down on a small side table, clasping her hands primly on her lap. “But I will see the Antivan Crows destroyed for their foolishness.”   
  
“The entire guild?” Zevran asked, one eyebrow raising high as a skeptical smile played over his lips. “The House of Crows has owned Antiva for hundreds of years. You want, what, for us to kill them all because they murdered your husband?” He shot a glance at Theron, who was toying with one of the feathers that had fallen off of his mask, watching the woman in blue with wide, calculating eyes.   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“You’re a madwoman.” Zevran got to his feet, frowning slightly when Theron did not join him.   
  
“Please continue,” Theron said, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position and snapping the feather between his fingers. Zevran sat again, drumming his fingers restlessly against the arm of the chair.   
  
“I am just an old woman with more money and power than any old, bitter woman ought to have. The Antivan Crows took away the only light in my life, and I will have my vengeance.” Joséphine turned her gaze to Theron. “Do you think me mad as well?”   
  
“Perhaps,” Theron said thoughtfully, putting the broken feather to his lips as he looked past her, before training his pale eyes on her. “But I think I understand. What are you offering us?”   
  
“Kill the guildmaster, cripple the guild until they lose their hold on the merchants in Orlais, and this estate is yours. If you prefer not to live in Antiva, there is a smaller manor in Orlais. If you prefer neither, I have ships, and gold.”

“You would offer all of this for revenge?” Zevran asked.   
  
“It is all that I want.” She got to her feet and nodded politely at the two of them. “I have said my piece. I am not an unreasonable woman, you may take time to decide. The hospitality of my house is yours until you do. Alenla will show you to the guest suite, and the cooks will make anything you desire. It is a long way back to town, but it is your decision whether or not you stay.” With that, she left, stride purposeful and spine straight despite her age.   
  
“Will messeres be staying?” asked the pretty elf that had lead them in, apparently Alenla, as she waited patiently with her arms clasped behind her. Theron shrugged, but when Zevran said that they would prefer to stay, he stood to follow her silently into the suite.   
  
The bed in the guest suite could have easily fit three or four other people, even if they weren’t elves, and Zevran sat on the edge, appreciatively fingering the silk coverlet as Theron began to undress. There was a large skylight over the bed, covered in opaque glass, and the room was full of moonlight, casting overlapping shadows when it met the light cast by the sconces.

“They didn’t even check us for weapons.” Theron removed his belt and slid off the pouches, setting them aside in a neat pile before peeling his tunic over his head. His back wasn’t peeling anymore, thanks to a trip to an alchemist just on the outskirts of Antiva City, but his skin was still red, and freckles had appeared where there were none before. With the shirt off, he unstrapped the thin leather straps that crossed his chest, shrugging off his daggers still in the sheaths. “If this was a set-up, it’s an elaborate one.” He slid a dagger out of his hip sheath and placed it with the others, leaving the ones in his high leather boots.   
  
“No. I think that she is what she says she is,” Zevran said from the bed, beckoning Theron closer. He slid his hands around Theron’s waist when he came to him, pressing his lips to his stomach, amorously tracing a finger across the laces of his trousers. “What do you think, mi amor?”   
  
“With time and men, we could do it.” Theron shifted his fingers through Zevran’s hair, lacing them behind his head when Zevran nuzzled into his stomach. “Especially if we can catch them off-guard, and I can use my bow. We can hire mercenaries...” Theron trailed off and sat down next to Zevran, resting his head on his shoulder when Zevran pulled him in.   
  
“It’s a dangerous idea.” Zevran kissed the top of his head.   
  
“Everything worthwhile so far has been dangerous.” Theron let him go and stretched out on the coverlet, gazing up at the moon through the hazy skylight. “I’m dangerous. You’re dangerous.”   
  
“Just so.” Zevran moved over him and began to trace freckles on his bare shoulder, memorizing their positions for when his skin once again was pale and unmarked. He lost count when Theron lifted his head and brought parted lips to Zevran’s, sucking his lower lip into his mouth. “You are also distracting.” He lowered himself to Theron to kiss him properly, taking his time with languid lips and a tentative tongue as he sunk in next to him and wrapped one arm around him.   
  
“I’m also exhausted,” said Theron, somewhat apologetically as Zevran pulled back a bit, moving into a more relaxed position.   
  
“You’re comfortable,” Zevran said softly, kissing his cheek as he settled in. “Is it the skylight?”   
  
“Perhaps.” Theron yawned, his eyes fluttering shut as Zevran pulled him in. “Perhaps it’s just...this. You. Antiva. The moon. This bed.”   
  
“Then we’ll do what we can to stay.” Zevran’s voice had a hint of finality to it, and as they drifted off to sleep together, Theron had no doubt that he meant it.


End file.
